XXX. Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame : Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain. Shy webeat XXXI. Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower burst forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. XXXII. She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail, Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white. XXXIII. She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, And where the present was she half forgot, Borne backward through the realms of old delight,Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone. XXXIV. How they went home together through the wood, And how all life seemed focused into one Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done? For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung. XXXV. But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen; - hard if these Found not some all unthought-of way to show Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid. XXXVI. Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns them miserly and cold as stone, And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss, Which but in giving truly is their own ; She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth. XXXVII. We only prize those hearts that do not prize From any thought of grovelling merchandise, XXXVIII. Her summer nature felt a need to bless, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray XXXIX. Now Margaret hath gained her secret bower, Calm heaven, which looked as it could never lower, And, all impearled with sunshine and fresh dew, It lay before her like a summer walk, An hour of trembling looks and ravished talk. |